


'hng' but on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel

by granjcltaire



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anal Sex, Aziraphale fucked most famous artists but here we're focusing on Michelangelo, Blow Jobs, Crowley is jealous but not really, Hand Jobs, M/M, ridiculous ceiling sex, takes place some time after Armageddon, they just enjoy a bit of RP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-10-19 04:11:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20651000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/granjcltaire/pseuds/granjcltaire
Summary: Following the idea that Aziraphale had *encounters* with a lot of artists through the centuries - Aziraphale had a *thing* with Michelangelo.On vacation, Aziraphale and Crowley visit the Sistine Chapel. Aziraphale tells Crowley about his *thing* with Michelangelo. Shenanigans on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel ensue.





	'hng' but on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to blame the lovely people on discord for this idea, but they merely presented me with the option to write - the decision to somersault backwards into this was all mine. eh, we're all cursed beings, after all, so just enjoy this mess. 
> 
> demons I hold responsible for this idea:  
[Herodias](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Herodias/pseuds/Herodias)  
[Liebelit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/liebelit/pseuds/liebelit)  
[Bookwormgal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bookwormgal/pseuds/Bookwormgal)

  
Sometime after Armageddon and their unfair trials Crowley had decided that they needed a vacation. A real vacation devoid of miracles, blessings, temptings, etc. Aziraphale agreed in a heart-beat. Both have been anxious to get away from London and their usual haunts for a while. They craved change.

  
The urgent need for change had been most obvious in Crowley, who altered his appearance once again. He let his hair grow and style itself into neat red curls that were draping over his shoulder elegantly. He decided to give make-up another try, experiment with his clothing – relish in the small pleasures of life once again. Without the pressures of Hell and Heaven on their backs, they discovered a nice liberty to wander, experiment, and go off the grid without Management’s threatening breath on their necks.

  
They were, of course, aware that Heaven and Hell could trace them wherever they would go on God’s Green Earth, but staying in England felt like – to use Aziraphale’s words – going too fast. After a bit of consideration – where Aziraphale listed places, their specific cuisines, literary heroes and artistic movements, and Crowley stared at him affectionately, nodding from time to time when it seemed appropriate – they decided to travel to Italy.

  
They resolved not to use their powers for a while, which also meant they had to travel the human way. With all the urgency of someone who didn’t plan on a return journey ‘home’, Crowley booked their flight online, while Aziraphale observed him work on the tablet with quiet admiration. On those rare occasions when the angel decided to acknowledge the passing of time past the nineteenth century, he still refused to cross the threshold past the 1950s.

* * *

  
Their first stop had not been the Vatican. Using the broader meaning of the term ‘avoidance’ would fit their feelings towards visiting the city-state. Both had specific reasons – unknown to the other – for avoiding the place. The reason, for Crowley, had been that it reminded him of The Young Lad (Jesus), and all the other kids ever since, that he couldn’t save. All the while Heaven watched the suffering without lifting a finger to help.

  
There had also been the question of Crowley stepping on consecrated ground. That concern, however, got dismissed upon entering the first religious building. Crowley’s feet didn’t burn. Either a) Crowley became a little more angelic/less demonic after Armageddon, b) religious buildings in Italy had lost their consecrated powers, or c) Louis Vuitton shoes had really good soles, consecrated-ground-proof. Crowley wasn’t sure which, and he wasn’t too terribly curious to find out. He was just glad he could explore every historical building with Aziraphale.  
For Aziraphale, however, the reasons for not wanting to visit Vatican City were less profound. They were quite funny reasons, really. He was only worried about Crowley’s reaction.

  
The facts were these: Aziraphale had been quite fond of the sixteenth century, the Italian Renaissance, the art – less so the imperialism and the conquering – and the food had been delicious. The artists had been delicious too, although in another sense of the word. Aziraphale’s heart fluttered as the thought crossed his mind – a discreet blush running up his neck and cheeks.

  
Despite knowing Crowley for over six thousand years, their new predicament was still rather new, and Aziraphale wasn’t sure how Crowley would react to some news. He couldn’t act too badly, Aziraphale rationalized, he was, however, afraid he could unintentionally hurt Crowley.  
This was precisely why, in hindsight, visiting Italy the human tourist way, was additionally stressful for the angel. Was he supposed to disclose his encounters with the artists – and therefore, their nature – to Crowley? How much should he tell him? Aziraphale sighed. He just hoped they wouldn’t visit Vatican City, after all. Everything would be fine if they avoided the Sistine Chapel, he concluded.

* * *

  
They arrived in Vatican City on a hot morning.

  
Just like they did with the other crowded touristic attractions, they had used an insignificant amount of their powers to make sure the buildings would be empty for the duration of their visit. That hardly counted as a miracle, really.

  
Other uses of their powers that didn’t count as miracles, and where thus not on the Do-Not-Use-Magic list, included: producing an infinite amount of money for their trips, willing their clothes into existence rather than dragging annoying luggage around, free tables at the most ridiculously busy restaurants across Italy, public transport always going where they happened to be going, and other such things that didn’t count as miracles.

  
That’s why, upon their arrival, the Sistine Chapel was nicely devoid of tourists.

  
Crowley picked up a pamphlet from the desk. It showed glossy pictures of the chapel, Michelangelo’s architectural scheme, descriptions of the nine scenes from the book of Genesis, and on the back was the map of the area, complete with misinforming road maps of a labyrinth of old narrow unpaved lanes, and quaint restaurants and cafes.  
They explored the chapel, walking side by side, fingers almost touching.

  
“Well – that depiction of Adam and Eve is racist.” Crowley said, a neutral indifference in his voice.

  
He seemed rather unimpressed with the building. Aziraphale remembered Crowley once telling him that he believed all human religious buildings to be ‘uninteresting, slightly modified copies of the same misunderstood original thing.’ He hoped Crowley wasn’t too bored, and decided to start a conversation to distract him. 

  
Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Almost all depictions of Adam and Ever are racist, Crowley,” he said. “Poor Michelangelo painted them the way that his understanding of the world allowed him. And make no mistake, I did try to tell him that’s not what they looked like. None of them looked like this.” Saying that he gestured around, pointing at the ceiling.

  
Crowley stopped his mindless sauntering around the chapel and turned towards Aziraphale. “Wait. You what? You met him?” He asked.

  
Aziraphale’s heart somersaulted in his chest. Oh dear. Why could he never keep his mouth shut, he asked himself. “Well, you see,” he said, speaking softly and worrying his hands. “I did meet him. Yes. Around the time he was working on the ceiling.” Good job Aziraphale. Nice and short answers. That ought to do the trick.

  
Crowley made a small noise in understanding.

  
A moment of silence. Both pretended to observe the architecture and the paintings.

  
Crowley broke the silence, startling Aziraphale. “So,” he asked. “you were what? Friends?” He was clearly trying to keep his tone on ‘polite interest’.

  
“You could say that,” said Aziraphale hesitantly.

  
“What does that mean?”

  
“We were- that is to say- our relationship was- well, not relationship but our encounters,” Aziraphale started, worrying his hands harder the more he talked. “Perhaps ‘friends’ is not the word I’d use. We talked about art, on the rare occasions we did talk, these encounters were more uh- physical in nature, but of course it wasn’t just that, see I also modelled for him, and we would talk then – moving was not encouraged, it messed with his sketching, you know, but he learned fast. The third time around he started with my head- sketching, I mean. So then we could talk. After that we would-“ he left the sentence trail off meaningfully, hoping that his awkward and messy explanation would be enough for Crowley. He truly wished Crowley would drop the subject without too much drama.

  
“Ah,” was all that Crowley said, bitterly.

  
“We were not friends!” Aziraphale said, as if the situation would have somehow been worse had he and Michelangelo been friends.

  
“Right.” Crowley muttered.

  
“We just- he needed someone of a specific body type to model for him. I- he simply gave me pleasure. Repeatedly. His company, that is. Oh.” Aziraphale made a soft desperate noise. For all the books he had read, and all the languages he knew, words decided to abandon him on that fine afternoon.

  
Crowley wasn’t looking at him. He was pretending to observe the details on the painting of Adam and Eve being tempted and cast out of Eden. Talking about symbolism. Aziraphale furrowed his brows.

  
“Is that- Is that alright – that we,” Aziraphale said, trying desperately to find his words. “Are you jealous?” He did find words, eventually. They were the wrong words, however.

  
“I’m not jealous,” said Crowley. The bitterness in his voice could have soured milk. “It doesn’t bother me that humans give you pleasure, repeatedly.” He spoke Aziraphale’s words back to him. The sentence was followed by a string of incoherent sounds, which surely helped Crowley make his point.

  
“Crowley, I’m-“

  
“Did you ever have a …” Crowley pondered for a second, trying to remember the words Aziraphale had used to describe it. “physical encounter here?”

  
“What?” Aziraphale asked, his cheeks were darkening really fast.

  
Crowley finally met his gaze.

  
“Uh, yes.”

  
Crowley hissed.

  
“I was modelling, like I told you!” Aziraphale said, his voiced pitched and supplicant.

  
“It’s fine, angel. ‘m not mad. Or jealous. I’m surprised, that’s all. I guess I never really thought of you… and humans… in that specific context.” Crowley explained.

  
“So… you’re not jealous then?” Aziraphale asked again. He needed to be sure.

  
“Hng,” Crowley said, helpfully. He really looked like he was trying really hard to express his not-at-all-jealousy into coherent sentences. “I was just worried about your health,” he said, half smirking, half playing at being jealous to mask his real feelings. “Red paint was toxic, angel. You could have caught something while rolling around here naked. Body fluids,” Crowley gestured around wildly. “everywhere, they’re your fluids and his fluids and then red paint! Red. Venetian red. The secret ingredient was arsenic, y’know. That’s a poison.”

  
“Oh, don’t be so dramatic, dear boy.” Aziraphale said, scolding the demon in the same tone of a teacher scolding a bright but disruptive student whose comments they secretly love. “Red dye was made from a tiny insect. At least that’s what Michelangelo told me, and why wouldn’t I trust such a skilled artist?”

  
Of course, that had been a lie. Aziraphale distinctly remembered that Michelangelo bought his reds from vendecolori who still used arsenic in the dye, and the new, non-toxic dye was a product of the conquest of the Aztec Empire, long after the artist was done with the chapel. But why not stretch the truth and tease Crowley for as long as possible, Aziraphale reasoned.  
“Yes, he told me this, in fact, while our fluids – as you put it – were mixing with that lovely red. It was just a bit of sweat, really. The lovely man was too shy to allow himself any pleasure,” Aziraphale said, teasing his partner and drawing out the story for longer than necessary, while Crowley was getting redder than the reddest vermillion in the painting. “he was so good at pleasuring others, however. Gave me the most thorough massage, and his hands were very skilled around my-“

  
“Angel!” Crowley snapped, interrupting Aziraphale mid-rant. “It’s fine. You don’t have to tell me everything.

  
“Oh? But I thought you weren’t the jealous type. You said it didn’t bother you that this sweet human offered me great pleasure, repeatedly.“

  
“Those were your words. Not mine,” said Crowley, putting on a very entertaining show of playing the jealous lover.

  
Aziraphale was hiding a devious smirk under an expertly practiced face of innocence.

  
Crowley smiled softly. “I’m not angry, angel,” he reassured Aziraphale again, a loving tone to his voice.

  
“Oh.” Aziraphale said intelligently. He could feel the love emanating from Crowley, and new that his words were true.

  
Crowley looked around the place. It was clear to Aziraphale that he wanted to know the specifics of that particular encounter, but was doing his best to contain his curiosity.

  
Or maybe not.

  
“Did you fuck him against that pillar?” Crowley asked, pointing at a random pillar. His voice was softer now, a hint of amusement replacing the hurt surprise from before.

  
“Don’t be crude.” Aziraphale admonished him. “We made love against that pillar over there.” He said, pointing at another pillar close to the one Crowley had pointed out before.

  
“I knew it!”

  
“What? How could you have known?”

  
“The light,” explained Crowley, he pointed at a huge window. “Good light source there. Perfect for sketching. And you said it all started with the modelling and sketching so-”

  
“You wily old serpent.” Aziraphale said, trying to sound like a proper old lady clutching at her pearls instead of a flirty angel.

  
“Should I also learn how to sketch, then?” asked Crowley, moving closer to Aziraphale with a ridiculously seductive sway in his hips.

  
Aziraphale’s brows furrowed in confusion. “What ever for?”

  
“To get you to model naked for me.” Crowley said, smirking. “Would that lead to a physical encounter for me too?”

  
Aziraphale scoffed a laugh. “Only if you can draw me with the same skill, craftsmanship, and talent as Michelangelo, dear boy,” he said, inching closer to Crowley.

  
“Cheeky bastard.”

  
“In the meantime, you could offer me other things that Michelangelo couldn’t offer, or I didn’t require from him,” said the angel.

  
In his mind the words clearly meant: ‘You can offer me your love, affection, time, etc.’ but the way they registered for Crowley, must have been more along the lines of ‘you can offer me more imaginative ways to have sex.’ Because Crowley beamed at him devilishly.

  
“So it was only that one pillar?” asked the demon, the glint of a mischievous idea in his eyes.

  
“What? Yes. Why?” Aziraphale asked, regretting once more that he had opened his mouth about Michelangelo.

  
Crowley seemed to ponder it for a moment. “Did you fuck on the ceiling?” He asked eventually.

  
“Rest assured, dear boy,” said Aziraphale, with a weird mixture of indignation and curiosity. “that Michelangelo and I did not – to use your lovely words – ‘fuck on the ceiling’. ”

  
“Would you?”

  
“What?”

  
“Fuck on the ceiling.”

  
“He’s dead, Crowley!”

  
Crowley hissed, equal parts amusement and exasperation. “Not him – me,” he explained.

  
Crowley took Aziraphale’s hands in his, pulling him in a tight embrace. He rested his hands against the angel’s hips.

  
Aziraphale was startled by the outlandish proposition, but thoroughly intrigued. “I certainly wouldn’t want to deny myself any form of intimacy with you, dear.” Aziraphale said, and he placed a soft chaste kiss on Crowley’s lips.

  
Crowley moaned quietly in appreciation. “That’s not a yes, though,” he pointed out. “I need it to be a clear, enthusiastic ‘yes’, angel.”

  
Aziraphale pondered it for a moment. “Clear and enthusiastic, you say?” He barely finished speaking before his fingers dug tightly into Crowley, holding him firmly, and miracling them off the ground and onto the ornate ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.

  
Gravity wasn’t an issue, for either of them, therefore sitting upside down on the chapel’s ceiling was no different for them than sitting on its floor.

  
“Is this clear and enthusiastic enough for you, dear?” Aziraphale asked, in true Soft Bastard fashion.

  
“Ngk,’ replied Crowley intelligently. “Too late to mention I was only joking?”

  
Where words failed, Aziraphale decided on a whim, actions could take their place.

  
Aziraphale was still holding Crowley tightly in his arms. He placed a kiss on the corners of Crowley’s mouth, followed by another soft chaste kiss on the lips, and another less chaste kiss, until they were properly making out on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel – very symbolically sitting on the painting of Adam and Eve, tempted by the wily serpent of Eden. Said wily old serpent of Eden was, of course, nowhere near as threatening in real life, especially not soft and moaning like he was now, in Aziraphale’s embrace.

  
Before too long, thin long fingers desperately clutched at the hem of Aziraphale’s trousers. When they broke the kiss Crowley smiled wickedly, and sank to his knees. His eyes were fixed on his angel lovingly. He wrapped his mouth against the soft material of Aziraphale’s trousers, expertly massaging him with lips and tongue. Aziraphale felt the hot dampness suffusing through his pants and underwear.

  
“Oo, that’s stimulating,” moaned Aziraphale.

  
“Stimulating?” asked Crowley, snaking a hand over the growing bulge in Aziraphale’s trousers. “I’ll have to try harder, then.”

  
Aziraphale’s eyes opened. His right hand getting a tender hold on Crowley’s soft red curls. Crowley’s general presence was usually enough to fill him with warm and fuzzy feelings; Crowley’s touch – no matter how chaste – could send him in sensory overload. And the cheeky bastard knew it. He also knew that Aziraphale was very sensitive around the thigh area, and was using that knowledge now to his advantage – and Aziraphale’s pleasure.

  
Crowley’s hands ignored Aziraphale’s growing bulge, opting for a slower stimulation. He pressed his fingers roughly against the thin material of Aziraphale’s trousers, on the most sensitive spot on his thighs. Thin long fingers massaged at the sensitive place, kneading intently, while wet lips and tongue teased Aziraphale through too many layers of material. The heat radiating from Crowley’s mouth made Aziraphale’s knees weak. He tightened his grip around Crowley’s red curls.

  
A hot wave of pleasure drowned Aziraphale’s entire body. His groin and belly were burning hot, and tense; his legs were trying their best to keep him upright despite the mellowing electricity shooting through them every time Crowley’s tongue rested a wet, hot moment longer over the head of Aziraphale’s hardened member; his skin was tingling with charged electric expectations of further pleasure.

  
“Oh, this is dangerous,” moaned Aziraphale. “We’re on a ceiling, dear.”

  
Crowley stopped his ministrations, earning a desperate whine from Aziraphale.

  
“Afraid we’re going to fall if you’re enjoying yourself too much, are we?” asked Crowley, all smirk and double-entendre.

  
Aziraphale’s red cheeks turned a slightly darker shade, which he hoped Crowley would perceive as enough of an answer. He hadn’t done this before. Well, he had done this, just not on the ceiling of a chapel. He wouldn’t fall, he though. He would have been a demon a long time ago, if God actually cared about his actions.1 His powers were a bit rusty, too. He was, however, enough of a bastard and the danger excited him. Not that he would admit it out loud to Crowley. Not that Crowley needed him to admit it – he was sure the demon already sensed it.  
Crowley’s fingers worked quickly around the mechanics of removing Aziraphale’s trousers and underwear. The rest of the clothes disappeared too – another miracle that didn’t count as a miracle, surely – and the two occult/ethereal creatures stood naked on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.

  
Crowley was still on his knees in front of Aziraphale. He was watching with delight as the angel’s breath quickened while he wrapped his fingers around him, and started to massage up and down his length. Aziraphale was hard and leaking. While Crowley’s hand tightened its grip around him, so did Aziraphale’s grip tighten in Crowley’s hair. He did hope he wasn’t pulling too hard, but he wasn’t sure whether letting go of Crowley at this point was a good idea. His legs were – metaphorically – turning into jelly.

  
Crowley released some of the pressure on Aziraphale, sliding two fingers on either side of the tip, teasing it, placing a soft kiss on it, and collecting the dripping pre-cum between his gentle fingers. Gingerly, he tasted a finger.

  
“More delicious than any of your food,” purred Crowley, smirking up at his angel.

  
“You are going to be the death of me, dear boy,” moaned Aziraphale.

  
He tugged at Crowley’s hair, indicating his wish for his demon to stand up. Crowley – ever so ready to service the angel – indulged him and got up swiftly.

  
Aziraphale kissed Crowley, wet and hot and desperate, expressing more than a thousand words ever could. His neatly manicured fingers caressed Crowley’s neck, chest, shoulders, and hips.

  
“How can I serve you, angel?” moaned Crowley after the kiss was broken. “Tell me what you need.”

  
He pressed closer into Aziraphale, sliding his thigh in-between Aziraphale’s legs. The friction was maddening. Aziraphale kissed his neck.

  
“What would you like,” asked Crowley, returning Aziraphale’s kisses – neck, lips, chest. “what should I miracle – down there.”

Aziraphale made a little distracted noise. “Surprise me,” he said, showering Crowley with tender kisses.

  
“Angel- please tell me what-” Crowley started his plea, but Aziraphale cut him off.

  
“On your back. Knees up,” groaned Aziraphale. He got a hold of Crowley’s waist, and more eagerly than necessary helped him into the needed position.

  
Aziraphale steadied himself between Crowley’s legs. He caressed his thighs and tummy, kissing them fast before proceeding with the preparations.

  
Soon enough, Aziraphale was fucking into Crowley at a steady pace. His head was thrown back, he was moaning, holding Crowley’s legs desperately for stability. He was afraid he’d leave bruises, but Crowley hadn’t objected to marks before.

  
Aziraphale’s unsteady and heavy breathing echoed off the spandrels and the curving vaults. He wondered for a moment whether the ceiling might be too cold under Crowley’s back, but his mind was hundreds of kilometers away to put it into words.

  
The lack of response from Crowley worried him, however so he slowed down and opened his eyes.

  
Crowley was staring into the painting, in which Adam and Eve were being tempted and sent from Eden. A multitude of opposed feelings flickered over his face. Aziraphale’s heart ached at the sight, as if ensnared in a barbed vermin trap. They had been so innocent, back then, Aziraphale mused, observing Crowley and the painting: The angel who didn’t so much fall as saunter vaguely downwards.

  
Aziraphale leaned over Crowley, placing tender kisses on his cheeks, his neck, and down his collar bone and shoulder. His neatly manicured fingers reached for Crowley, expecting him to be hard, hot and bothered, and found the opposite. Aziraphale’s hips came to a steady halt. He pulled himself out of Crowley tenderly.

  
Aziraphale’s brow furrowed.

  
He ran a hand up Crowley’s chest and through his hair, making sure his fingers didn’t pull on the messy curls.

  
“Crowley,” he dared, tentatively, trying to find the proper words. “Is something the matter, dear?”

  
“No,” Crowley said, lying like a lying liar who lies. “Lean back, angel. Please.”

  
Aziraphale smiled, not because anything about the situation was particularly amusing, but because in that moment he could sense a very clear wave of affection radiating off Crowley. It was a nice all-encompassing warm feeling.

  
Aziraphale leaned against the ceiling, his back seemingly resting against the illusory tree, from which a wily half-human half-serpent was tempting Eve. Crowley spread Aziraphale’s legs, kneeling between them.

  
He started his previous ministration, sucking, licking, kissing Aziraphale. His hand was matching the energetic rhythm of his lips.

  
Aziraphale’s hand reached out to tenderly cup Crowley’s face. He caressed his sharp cheekbones with his thumb.

  
“You’re so beautiful, dear,” said Aziraphale just above a whisper.

  
He couldn’t see Crowley’s face too well, buried as he was between his legs, sucking him off.

  
Crowley stopped. He got up from between Aziraphale’s legs, leaned on one hand, while the other hand was delicately pleasuring Aziraphale. He kissed Aziraphale breathless and increasingly sloppier and wetter, until his hand quickened its pace too. Emboldened by Aziraphale’s whimpers, moans, and upward thrusting, Crowley tightened his grip. The angel thrust impatiently, fucking into his hand, hard and fast, demanding louder and louder for it to go faster and harder. Aziraphale whined, his desperate, needy pleas echoing against the cold, empty arches of the chapel.

  
Crowley watched Aziraphale’s expression of ecstasy – eyes shut tight, face red, chest heaving, mouth open, tongue pressed on the roof of his mouth – as he thrust lustfully into his hand. His sweaty dishevelled red curls were draping on both sides of the angels face, even in those moments shielding the exposed, vulnerable angel from the outside world.

  
“That’s it, angel,” purred Crowley into Aziraphale’s ear. He kissed his neck. “Trust me. Let go. You’re doing so well.” He kept whispering encouraging little nothings into Aziraphale’s skin with every burning kiss.

  
Overwhelmed by feelings and sensations, Aziraphale came. Crowley stroked him through his orgasm, their mouths hungry for each other barely breaking for air.

  
Aziraphale was breathing heavily, heating Crowley’s sweaty neck.

  
Crowley miracled them clean and snaked his lean frame against Aziraphale for after-sex cuddles.

  
“Better than Michelangelo?” asked Crowley, his voice deep and sultry.

  
Aziraphale found it endearing. He beamed at Crowley, and pulled him tighter in his embrace. With shaking fingers he caressed his red hair, removing it from his damp forehead.

  
“Of course. Don’t be ridiculous, ” said Aziraphale, scolding Crowley. “Dear boy, you didn’t-“

  
“Yeah. I know,” whispered Crowley lovingly. “Still not a big fan of that. But I love seeing you like this. I want to give you all the possible and impossible pleasure.”

  
“Oh dear,” said Aziraphale.

  
They were laying in each other’s embrace, hot sweaty bodies heaving in unison. Moments passed. Aziraphale was distractedly playing with Crowley’s hair. Crowley was softly kissing every inch of skin within his reach.

  
Aziraphale had been the first to break the silence with a high-pitched laugh. “We just had sex on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel,” said Aziraphale. The reality of their actions only now gradually dawning on him.

  
Crowley laughed softly, a soothing sound that washed over Aziraphale like a healing balm. He held Crowley a little tighter in his arms. They were more at ease than ever before.

* * *

  
It is a known fact that in the Afterlife souls can occasionally revisit places with which they had a strong emotional connection.

  
That is the reasons why, while an angel and a demon were writhing in harmonious pleasure on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, a ghost was observing them. Unbeknownst to them, the ghost had been there from the moment Aziraphale first laid foot on the marble floor – expecting perhaps a nice conversation with an old friend. The ghost, however, did not foresee the depravity that was to follow.

  
To set some ground rules and regulations of Ghost Existence: movement between locations2; is permitted only with Very Serious Documents of Travel, issued exclusively by the best bureaucratic tormentors from both Heaven and Hell after a thorough screening process3; the documented ghost can travel to all the established places, as long as the will is strong enough, someone is calling them, or they are emotionally tied to the place in some way or another; the stay can be interrupted at any moment; the ghost can choose whether to be seen or heard by others4; applications for Ghost Visa are open 1 hour a month; the month is never specified.

  
Keeping all this bureaucratic nightmare in mind, lets return our attention to the horrified ghost of Michelangelo, currently watching the show on the ceiling from behind his fingers.

  
When Aziraphale came all over his masterpiece a little piece of his soul withered away. He had spent so many excruciating hours slaving away on those paintings – no food, no sleep, just detailed rendering of biblical scenes he was now painfully aware he had gotten rather wrong.

  
A bit of relief washed over him as the demon – Crowley, he recalled, the protagonist of the now-stained painting – cleaned the mess from the painting and their bodies. He would forever know the stain had been there, however, and will never look upon it the same way.

  
Michelangelo had read the Rules and Regulations, of course, and knew that he could leave at every moment, but he decided he needed to do something about this. So he materialised a piece of ethereal paper and a pencil and started to sketch. Surely leaving that drawing there would shake some sense into Aziraphale and Crowley – being this obscene in public places should be discouraged. Think of all the ghosts who are always watching!5

  
Michelangelo finished his sketch – equal parts amused and horrified – and placed it on the ground directly below the angel/demon duo. With quick sign of the cross, he vanished.

* * *

  
Once clean and dressed again, Aziraphale commenced their descent.

  
“Angel,” said Crowley, trying to catch Aziraphale’s attention.

  
A piece of paper he hadn’t noticed upon their arrival was now neatly folded on the floor. He bent over and picked it up. Steady fingers unfolded the paper.

  
Aziraphale came next to Crowley and observed the strange piece of paper with furrowed brows.

  
“What is that?” asked Aziraphale. “I didn’t notice it before.”

  
“Yeah, neither did I,” muttered Crowley. “Gift from your friend?”

  
Crowley smirked and held the paper so Aziraphale could see it too. The angel blushed. His hand reached at his chest while he gasped, before snatching the paper from Crowley’s hands. He saw the rough sketch and the signature.

  
“This is- oh, no, I think he was here. How mortifying,” whined Aziraphale. His face was back to a lovely shade of red.

  
Crowley’s lips were stuck in an amused smirk, but his neck was starting to match his collar’s shade of red.

  
“Well, at least we gave him a show. Must be pretty boring in the afterlife,” Crowley commented.

  
“I suppose. At least now we have a nice gift from him. I suppose this means he approves of our union,” said Aziraphale, sweetly trying to divert the attention from the awkward situation.  
He turned the paper on the other side. Something that looked like a poem had been hurriedly scribbled on the back.

  
“What’s it say? I mean, I can see the words, but my sixteenth century Italian ‘s a bit rusty,” said Crowley, in that fast torrent of words typical to his states of impatience.

  
Aziraphale started to read out loud, translating to English as his eyes skimmed over the lines:

>   
_This heart of flesh feeds not with life my love:_  
_The love wherewith I love thee hath no heart;_  
_Nor harbours it in any mortal part,_  
_Where erring thought or ill desire may move._  
_When first Love sent our souls from God above;_  
_He fashioned me to see thee as thou art – _  
_Pure light; and thus I find God’s counterpart_  
_In thy fair face, and feel the sting thereof. _  
_As heat from fire, from loveliness divine_  
_The mind that worships what recalls the sun_  
_From whence she sprang, can be divided never:_  
_And since thine eyes all Paradise enshrine, _  
_Burning unto those orbs of light I run,_  
_There where I loved thee first to dwell for ever._

Aziraphale cleared his throat. He couldn’t dare a glance at Crowley, he was afraid the overwhelming feelings in his chest might overrun and he would burst into tears.

  
“’There where I loved thee first’,” Crowley recited back. “Eden.” He looked at the painting they just desecrated: Adam and Eve and Crowley, in Eden, and somewhere on the Eastern Gate – Aziraphale. “How did he know about Eden? Did you tell him I fell in love with you in-“

  
“You what?” Aziraphale interrupted him. “I didn’t know that.” He watched Crowley with large surprised eyes. “You did? In Eden? You- all this time?”

  
Crowley muttered sounds intelligently. “Hng, yeah?”

  
Aziraphale softened. “Oh, Crowley. I’m so sorry it took me this long to- all these centuries you-” whined Aziraphale. Words failed him for a second time that day, as his eyes filled with tears.

  
“Nononono! ‘s fine! Really, angel. Please don’t cry,” begged Crowley.

  
Crowley took Aziraphale in a loving embrace, caressing his back, placing loving kisses on his head.

  
“It’s a nice poem,” said Crowley, trying to diffuse the heaviness of the moment. “I can tell that he was a very gentle soul. I’m happy you two have met, became friends, whatever.”

  
“Crowley-“

  
Crowley shushed Aziraphale tenderly. “It’s fine, angel. We’re here now, and that’s all that matters, right? We’re at the ‘dwell for ever’ part of the poem now. Can’t get rid of me that easily,” Crowley attempted a light joke, and while Aziraphale appreciated the sentiment behind it, he had thoughts he had to articulate.

  
But not now, he pondered. Now they were too vulnerable, raw and exposed. Maybe on a sunny day, over a nice picnic with ridiculously expensive wine, devilled eggs and angel cake, they would discuss this subject deeper.

  
Aziraphale pulled himself free from Crowley, a loving and gentle smile shining bright against his wet eyes. He folded the paper and tucked it in his coat pocket. He took Crowley’s hand in his. They sauntered towards the exit of the chapel, shoulders brushing, fingers entwined.

  
“If that’s the case then, I suppose you will accompany me to that restaurant tonight,” said Aziraphale, his voice, despite being as soothing as honey was unable to mask the tint of wickedness.

  
“Oh no, no, angel. I already told you yesterday I’m not setting food in that place,” whined Crowley.

  
“You just promised never to leave my side, and I am going to that restaurant-“

  
“That was not what I meant-“

  
“Just a second ago, you said-“

  
“Angel, they serve disgusting-“

  
“Crowley! You’re no fun.”

  
Their loving bickering faded in the distance as they stepped into the crowded street.

* * *

  
Leaning against a pillar, Michelangelo was watching them leave, a huge smile on his face and eyes tearing with joy.

  
‘Did you tell him that I fell in love with you in Eden?’ had asked the silly serpent. Michelangelo scoffed. As if any celestial, ethereal, or occult being ever needed words or an explanation to feel the love radiating off these two.

  
He really hoped this counted as a good deed and his travel time would be prolonged. He had a burning wish to follow these two around, maybe leave more sketches for them, write more poems about their love... teach them not to have sex in public. Michelangelo smiled, and vanished once again, just before a wave of tourists flooded the Sistine Chapel.

**Author's Note:**

> 1. Aziraphale had, after all 1) given away his flaming sword; 2) allowed a wily old serpent to tempt humans to commit the Original Sin; 3) gave his flaming sword to said Original Sinners 4) lied to God’s face about the whereabouts of his sword 4) had repeated sexual encounters with Crowley – the Wily Old Snake of Eden – in the last few months.
> 
> 2. Heaven, Hell, Earth, that one planet no one wants to visit because of the unbreathable atmosphere and looped Best of Neil Diamond on a gramophone, but some occasionally do visit it because it has good cafes 
> 
> 3. Excerpt from the demonic copy of the Rules and Regulations: “#843: Thorough cavities search may not be mandatory, but Sandal-phone [sic] enjoys it and we’re not telling him to stop.” 
> 
> 4.This wish, however, should be specified prior to the travel documents request, as it warrants it own special annex, form and stamp, provided only by Dagon – Lord of the Files and Torments.
> 
> 5."average ghost watches 201 sexual encounters a year" factoid actually just statistical error. average ghost watches 0 sexual encounters per year. Lord Byron, who resides in the most depraved parts of hell & watches over 10,000 each day, is an outlier and should not have been counted


End file.
